This Year at the Gala
by KissofJudas
Summary: Every year, the law professionals hold a gala for networking and merriment. But everyone really knows you come for the gossip. And whether he likes it or not, Phoenix Wright has made himself the talk of the evening. But all he cares about is just one dance. (It's fluff, I swear to you. One-shot, Narumitsu.)
1. Chapter 1 - Phoenix

It was a miracle that he'd been able to convince the man to come at all. This wasn't somewhere he was comfortable-

Well, no. That wasn't the case in the least.

This was exactly where he was most comfortable. But...not usually like this.

"Thank you for coming," the raven-haired man muttered under his breath, trying to keep the brief sentence between the rises and falls of the music, so his intended target might actually hear it. ...Not that he doubted his companion's ability to hear whatever he wanted, under any circumstance.

...And often the same in reverse.

"Mmm." The taller of the two didn't even give a look to acknowledge that he'd heard, only the sound and a faint nod of his head.

For as much as they'd stayed standing still tonight, Phoenix didn't regret the endeavor. The Gala was usually passed off as an opportunity to hob-knob and network with the other law professionals, but more often than not, it was a chance for the gossips and the busybodies to figure out what was going on with who. Maya had begged Phoenix to take her, and he'd flatly refused each and every year. When Pearls had demanded an answer for why Nick wasn't taking "his beloved Mystic Maya" to the Gala, he'd only had to scramble for a second before coming up with a perfect answer—and not a lie, either. (Or at least, not much of one.) His first year—the only Gala where the two had been there together—Mia had refused to take him as well. She'd given an off-hand "it's not a place for rookies" as her answer, and even then Phoenix had known it was a lie.

But it was something he could tell Pearls. He said it was only for full-fledged lawyers, and prayed she never asked that if it was only for lawyers, could Nick only ever date other lawyers...?

He didn't want to see Maya in law school. For so many reasons.

But this year he'd wanted to go. It was his first Gala after reclaiming his badge, Apollo and Trucy already had other plans, and Athena had turned interesting shades of purple at her own invitation so she had quickly found plans of her own. Which meant he got his chance to slip a quiet invitation to the person he'd really wanted to spend the evening with...and pray he didn't have other plans.

_I'd like to go to the Gala this year. Can I convince you to come with? I'd appreciate a friendly face._

The response took four days to get to him.

_If you insist._

So here they were, standing on the edges of the Gala, watching the dresses and suits twirl like they were are a high school prom all over again. Phoenix couldn't help it; the corners of his mouth twitched up in a smile. He couldn't imagine either of them at a high school prom.

...Well no, that wasn't true either. He _could_ imagine himself at a high school prom, but he'd really rather not relive that disaster all over aga-

"Wright, a question."

Phoenix's head snapped back up. "Yeah?"

"Do you even know how to dance?"

Phoenix crossed his arms, huffing out a breath. "Don't say it like that. Edgeworth. Of course I know how to dance. I mean, I haven't exactly had much practice lately so I'm a little rusty, but I learned." _Once, a long time ago,_ he added silently.

"Then why don't you?" One hand gestured out to the dance floor. "I'm sure there's a partner out there willing to risk their toes for you."

He flustered for a moment before turning it back on its asker. "Well what about you? All that training, you have to know how to dance, but you haven't been out there all night. You go dance then."

"True, I can dance. I, on the other hand, wasn't the one who specifically wanted to come to this event." That got the slate grey eyes to turn on Phoenix. "You don't have that excuse."

Phoenix turned his gaze away, staring down at his shoes. _Come on, Wright. You got him to come out here tonight. The least you can do...!_ But he didn't speak. He could feel his ears burning already; there was no way he'd be able to say anything now. But this was different from the quiet dinners at pubs or drinks at Edgeworth's apartment. This wasn't a quiet conversation before a trial or a smile after an acquittal. This was a horse of a different color, out in the middle of everyone, with nothing to hide behind.

Edgeworth always did well in groups. Phoenix, not so much. And this... This wasn't either of their strong points.

He could hear the music shift, and a hand appeared in his vision. Slowly his eyes panned up...to the impassive face of his friend. "Edgeworth?"

"Come on, Wright. You wanted to dance, so dance. It won't kill you."

"B-but..."

"Wright." The hand shifted, nearly imperceptibly, but Phoenix caught the tone in the motion: _You're being rude, and making this more uncomfortable than it needs to be. Stop making a scene._ He straightened his back and stepped toward Edgeworth, which allowed the taller man to lower his hand and lead them to an open corner of the room. They'd garnered a few glances, but nothing serious yet. By the time Edgeworth stopped moving, Phoenix could almost see the faint tremor in his friend's hand.

"Miles, you don't..." But he couldn't finish the sentence.

Edgeworth didn't say a word, only taking Phoenix's hand in his and setting the other on the small of Wright's back. Hesitating only for a second, Phoenix reached up and set his hand on Edgeworth's shoulder—and they began to move.

It took Phoenix about four steps before he realized that he'd ceded power of the dance to Edgeworth. In the next step, he knew there was no chance he'd have gotten to lead anyway, and was perfectly content not to.

Now he was noticing a few more glances their direction. This was entirely out of the ordinary. Nearly everyone in the room knew either Wright, Edgeworth, or both—and the rest certainly had heard of them, and could recognize them even out of their standard court attire. But now they were dancing. Together. At the Gala. They may as well have gotten married.

For a fleeting second, Phoenix wondered what would happen if Pearls ever heard about this.

For a slightly longer second, he wondered what Maya would think.

For almost a minute, he started wondering about Apollo. Athena. Trucy. What had he been thinking?

"Wright, you're exceptionally hard to lead when you're this tense." The baritone murmur reminded him of each and every reason.

"Sorry, Edgeworth." _Even now, we're so formal. Calling each other by our last names, never looking at each other..._ He tempted the fates and glanced up at his friend's face—only to find that Edgeworth's eyes were closed.

It made sense. What he couldn't see, couldn't immediately bother him.

_To hell with them._ Phoenix took a slow breath and shifted just enough to set his head against Edgeworth's shoulder. The steady _thu-thump_ of Edgeworth's heartbeat—if a bit quicker than usual—kept his own blood pressure down. He closed his own eyes, focusing on any other sense. The feeling of warmth under his cheek. The smooth and easy rhythm of the music, the movement of their feet on the carpet. The faint smell of brandy mixed with cologne coming off of the jacket. The absence of the tremor in his partner's hand.

Just before the song ended, Phoenix's eyes opened just enough to see their entwined hands, and his lips turned into a small smile. "Thank you, Miles."

There was a second before he got an answer, felt from the vibrations under his cheek more than heard.

"You're welcome, Phoenix."


	2. Chapter 2 - Edgeworth

I never should have let him drag me here. He would have taken no for an answer; he always does, outside of the courtroom.

...Then again, I don't exactly have evidence to back that claim up.

Damn.

I have never liked the Gala, simply a place for those who pretend to be civil and charming to be crass gossip-hounds behind their gloved hands and fancy dress. The same is true of every gathering, convention...any large meeting of us, and we immediately become children again, clustered in nattering groups on the playground, pulling each other's hair and stealing the best ball.

But Wright, apparently, has never been, and he asked me to accompany him. The fates only know what they might do to him if he went alone, so I agreed.

To be fair, I thought this was a good year for Wright to make his debut at the Gala. With the scandal which lost him his badge now behind us, the Juror System under review, and him reinstated behind the bar, it seems fitting for him to make an appearance...and I suppose a show of good faith, coming with the Chief Prosecutor. The dark days of the law are now behind us, or will be shortly, and this is a good message to send to the professionals of this town.

...So why am I nervous?

I stood for a solid half an hour in front of the mirror in my washroom, staring at myself. It's not the clothes; I've gotten more accustomed to keeping the more formal suit I've been known for strictly for special occasions. While this is, I suppose, "special"...I wasn't willing to wear it again. Nothing else is different. Pess wandered around following me, likely wondering if her master was losing his mind.

I can't answer her. I know not, truly.

But now here we are, at the Gala, standing and doing absolutely nothing except be pillars of the community...and quite possibly, the room. Wright made such a fuss about wanting to come, and now he won't _do_ anything, save for stand next to me and shift his weight from time to time. The man is maddening. He leaves his apartment only to go to his office, and half the time I don't think he's ever left the office in the first place. Yet if I call, or visit the Agency, he is more than willing to be taken away from whatever he wasn't accomplishing. I like to think I force a bit of culture into his spiky head, having him see great works of art, the occasional theatre or musical performance, even just a fine glass of wine at my apartment. An evening of quiet intellectual conversation, after a day of working with the children he fills his office with.

I shudder to think of what happens if and when the Fey girls return. Justice and Wright will be hopelessly outnumbered, and I do not think either of them have the fortitude to withstand that maelstrom.

I look out over the crowd. It's a lovely building they've chosen, something which I think doubles as a museum during the day. There is no designated dance floor, though the floor around the base of the grand staircase is serving that purpose. There is a table with drinks and light refreshments nestled in a corner of an adjoining room, and a piano player hidden to the side of the stairs, tapping out soft notes and never looking up from his keys.

It makes me wonder. Wright once worked as a piano player, for the...club whose name I have eliminated from my mind, apparently. Does he ever miss that? He claims to have not had much skill with the instrument, but then again, he claims he is not much of a lawyer most days. That, I have evidence to disprove him on.

I see his lips quirk in a smile, clearly to some thought of his.

This is foolish. My distaste for the event aside, we are both here. Why are we just standing around?

"Wright, a question."

His head raises sharply, as if I've startled him. "Yeah?"

"Do you even know how to dance?" It's occurred to me that it would be well within the logic of my childhood friend to show up to an event such as this and not be able to perform the main event.

However, it seems to not be the case. In a humorous show of offense, Wright huffs at me, crossing his arms. The motion makes me realize how different he looks outside of his classic blue suit. The black suits him, and even more so the green tie.

Though honestly anything but the pink would suit him well.

"Don't say it like that, Edgeworth. Of course I know how to dance. I mean, I haven't exactly had much practice lately so I'm a little rusty, but I learned."

_How long ago?_ I wonder, but instead of speaking it, I simply indicate the floor in front of us, a gesture taking in the dancing pairs. "I'm sure there's a partner out there willing to risk their toes for you."

I see the tops of his cheeks burn pink as he blusters. "Well what about you? All that training, you have to know how to dance, but you haven't been out there all night. You go dance then."

"True, I can dance. I, on the other hand, wasn't the one who specifically wanted to come to this event." I turn my head to look at him straight on. "You don't have that excuse."

What I don't want to admit was why I haven't been out to dance. I'm not ready to admit it to myself, let alone to Wright. It has been quite some time since I had surrendered myself to the dance with anyone...

Wright looks down to his shoes, the blush on his cheeks brightening, and in that one moment I am caught off-guard. The friendship between Wright and I has always bordered on awkward, given my emotional guardedness and his natural idiocy, and as such I have never been able to get a clear read on his emotions. He has always been always exuberant to see me—perhaps not to the extent that Larry was, but few were—but never demonstrative. He enjoys our evenings, as far as I can tell, but has never said a word about them. The rumors had circulated a few months ago that there was something more intimate going on between us, and he denied them vehemently, but would never meet my eyes if either of us mentioned them.

Was it possible that...?

Of course. Wright never would have said a thing to me. Chill, impenetrable, stoic Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth? Romantic in any way? Certainly not. Even if he'd wanted...

The pianist starts a new song, and I have to make a decision. Is this a passing thought, or is it something more? Am I going to lie to myself for another decade, or am I finally going to make this evident? I swore years before that I was going to make myself into my own person, and not the shadow of my adopted family. It was now or never.

I shift myself to stand in front of him and offer him my hand, being sure to place it in his line of vision. His head slowly lifts, and he meets my eyes. "Edgeworth?"

I fight to keep my voice even. "Come on, Wright. You wanted to dance, so dance. It won't kill you."

"B-but..."

"Wright." I can't have him waffle. I can't stand here like a fool, hand in front of him, waiting like a schoolgirl. I can feel my shoulders tense...and as luck would have it, Wright knows me well enough to see the discomfort and responded. He stands up straight and moves toward me, and I lead him to a corner partially obscured by the staircase. It is still, technically, on the dance floor but also lends us a bit of pseudo-privacy. I am willing to take a more liberal definition of the word "public" for this display.

My hands are shaking. What am I doing? What am I thinking? Am I insane?

"Miles, you don't..." Wright doesn't finish the sentence, but I can hear the rest in the hesitation. _You don't have to do this._

I don't speak. If I speak, I could not trust the words that came out of my mouth. I turn, taking Wright's hand in mine, and place the other on the small of his back. After a second's hesitation, he sets his free hand on my shoulder, and we take the first steps.

I have to force myself to breathe. I can hear my hear pounding in my ears. Finally, I close my eyes, trying to focus on the dance and nothing more. A simple waltz. I can do this in my sleep. Step, step, step, pause. One, two, three, pause. Wright is better at this than he claimed. Step, step, step, pause. One, two, three, breathe. Is the room too warm, or is it just his proximity? He'd put on cologne. I hadn't noticed that before. One, two, three; is anyone watching us?

What _were_ we?

Wright is stiff in my arms. Apparently, I'm not the only nervous one. I swallow and force the words to come out of my mouth, and laud them when they sounded natural. "Wright, you're exceptionally hard to lead when you're this tense."

"Sorry, Edgeworth." Something in my gut twinges at the formality. I am holding this man in my arms and still—! But I can still feel him relax by shades, and then shift slightly—

—To place his head on my shoulder.

A flicker shoots through my chest; a more romantic man might say his heart skipped a beat. I can just barely feel the brush of his hair against my chin, still in its impeccable gravity-defiant slick. The fabric of my shirt just below his mouth warms and cools with his breath. My breath is caught in my throat...but my hand is no longer shaking.

I have been lying to myself for a very long time about this man.

But I am done lying.

We dance, as fluid as one, and as the song comes to a close, I feel his hand tighten just a fraction on mine—so small a movement that I am not sure he knows he's done it.

"Thank you, Miles," I hear his soft tenor say, and my chest is lighter for the sound of it.

It only takes me the briefest of moments to reply, in a voice meant only for him.

"You're welcome, Phoenix."


End file.
